Micro - Michael Crichton [85]
Often, as a bat was pinging a moth, the moth would defend itself with a loud drumming noise. “Moths have very good hearing,” Erika explained. The moth had heard the bat’s sonar, and the moth was starting up its defensive noisemakers. The banging sounds were coming from drums on the moth’s abdomen. The sounds could jam the bat’s sonar, confusing the bat, making the moth invisible to the bat. As a bat closed in on a moth, there would be a crescendo of bat pings, mixed with a rising drumming sound as the moth tried to jam the bat’s sonar. Ping, ping, ping, went a bat. Pom-pom-pom-pom, went a moth, trying to jam the bat’s sonar. Sometimes a moth’s drumming would end abruptly. “The bat ate the moth,” Erika informed them.
They listened, almost hypnotized, as the bat-sounds played over their heads. And then a bat passed right over their fort, with a whoomp of velvet wings. The sound of the animal’s sonar as it passed almost deafened them, and left their ears ringing.
“This world scares the hell out of me,” Karen King said. “But somehow I’m glad to be here anyway. I must be nuts.”
“At least it’s interesting,” Rick commented.
“I do wish we had a fire,” Erika muttered.
“Can’t do it. It would advertise us to every predator out there,” said Peter.
Erika Moll was the person who had advised them not to build a fire. But even so, the ancient human in her longed for a fire. A simple fire, warm and bright and comforting. A fire meant safety, food, home. But only darkness and chill and weird noises surrounded her. She began to notice the sound of her heart thudding in her throat. Her mouth had gone dry, and Erika realized that she was terrified, more frightened than she had ever been in her life. The primitive part of her mind wanted to scream and run, even when the rational part of her mind knew it would be certain death to run blindly through this super-jungle at night. The rational thing was to stay silent and not move, yet her primitive fear of darkness threatened to overwhelm her.
The darkness seemed to coil around the humans and watch them.
“What I’d give for a light,” Erika whispered. “Just a small light. I would feel better.”
She felt Peter’s hand close around her hand. “Don’t be afraid, Erika,” he said.
Erika began to cry silently, gripping Peter’s hand.
Amar Singh sat with the harpoon across his knees. He smeared more curare on the point, working by sense of touch and hoping he wouldn’t cut himself. Peter began to sharpen his machete with the diamond sharpener. They heard a whisk, cling sound as Peter passed the sharpener back and forth over his machete. The others slept, or tried to sleep.
The sounds changed. A blanket of quiet dropped around them. The quiet woke the sleepers. They listened, straining their ears. The quiet seemed worse than any noise.
“What’s going on?” Rick Hutter said.
“Take up your weapons,” Peter whispered urgently.
There were clinking sounds—machetes being grappled, held, poised.
Then a strange, soft whistling noise began. It seemed to come from several places at once. The whistling came closer. Something was approaching.
“What is that?”
“It sounds like breathing.”
“Maybe it’s a mouse.”
“That’s no mouse.”
“It has lungs, anyway.”
“Yeah—too many lungs.”
Peter said, “Get your headlamps ready. Turn them on at my signal.”
“What’s that smell?”
An acrid, musty reek filled the air. It grew stronger, and thicker, until the smell seemed to coat their skin like oil.
“That’s venom,” Peter Jansen said.
“What kind, Peter?” Karen asked sharply.
Peter tried to summon from his memory the odors of different venoms. He didn’t recognize it. “I don’t know what—”
A very large, heavy animal began rushing toward them, making crashing sounds.
“Lights!” Peter shouted.
Several headlamps came on, and the beams crisscrossed over a vast centipede, rippling toward them. It had a blood-red head studded with four eyes. Under its head, a pair of red fangs with black tips were held open around a complicated mouth. The centipede traveled on forty legs moving in waves,